


where you take one step and miss the whole first rung

by nuricurry



Series: kiss of death, embrace of life [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Raising Harry Potter, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24460195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuricurry/pseuds/nuricurry
Summary: “Why, Padfoot?” Remus asked, his voice apologetic. As if he was already aware of what the answer was, as if he regretted the mere thought of asking him to explain. There were doors left locked in Grimmauld Place because of the horrors that lay within. Sirius, a Black to his core, was much the same.“You know why.”“Yes,” came Remus’ sickeningly gentle and reluctant agreement, “but I think it’d still help if you explained.”“Oh,” Sirius laughed a little just under his breath. Even to his own ears, the sound was too hysterical to be of actual amusement. “Because we’re both so well versed. Talking about things, the thing we do best. Fantastic idea, that.”
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: kiss of death, embrace of life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766773
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	where you take one step and miss the whole first rung

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel of sorts to my previous fic, [Life in a Powder Keg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16789330). Not exactly necessary, though perhaps beneficial to read.

In flat number 18C, the one directly below theirs, lived Farooq Bashair. He was an old man (“perhaps nearly as old as Dumbledore,” Sirius suggested once, and was smacked for it by Remus), and he very much liked his peace and quiet and complete lack of delinquency and disturbance. 

As such, Farooq Bashair was not especially fond of the Black-Lupin-Potters, who were not peaceful or quiet or absent from delinquency and disturbances. 

Sirius had taken to staring at Farooq’s turban each time he came thundering up the stairs to the attic flat to air his grievances of the day. He had found that not looking at the old man only made him angrier, but at the same time, looking directly into his eyes while he went on with his ranting and raving also tended to make things worse, because Farooq saw Sirius’ unwavering disinterest in his disappointment as a challenge, and there had been more than one occasion where Sirius had been convinced that, were it not haram, he would have been soundly decked in the half-open doorway of his flat.

He was staring at Farooq’s turban again, silently musing that it must certainly require at least two and a half metres to get it to be quite that shape, not at all absorbing the criticisms about loud rock records played outside of acceptable noise hours, or the cigarette butts left in the downstairs lobby, or the thumping and stomping early in the morning when any respectable retiree would be trying to sleep in. He had just realized that Farooq’s turban was a particular shade of burgundy that Sirius hadn’t seen on him before, when there came the sound of footsteps on the stairwell, and from over Farooq’s shoulder there appeared the well worn and blessedly familiar shape of Remus.

“Oh, thank _Merlin_ ,” Sirius said as he leaned out the door and around Farooq, calling out to Remus in the hallway, “You remembered to get the eggs.”

As expected, Farooq was not at all pleased that his complaints were not being given undivided attention, and he especially did not take kindly to the fact that Sirius seemed to be much more interested in the bags of shopping that Remus had in his hands, and not his demanding and unwelcome guest. 

“Mister Black!” he began to wind himself up again for another round of tongue-lashing, when from the folds of Remus’ coat came a soft chirping sound, followed by a few sputters, and a handful of grunts. Harry’s head appeared, first his tousled black hair, then his scar, then his green eyes, and as he shook free from the layers that Remus had put on over him and the papoose before heading out into London’s wet November for the week’s shopping, he caught sight of Farooq Bashair. 

“ _Baash-eer_!” Harry said, the closest approximation he had gotten to the pronunciation of Farooq’s last name (because it was only Sirius who called him ‘ _Farooq_ ’ and not ‘ _Mister Bashair_ ’, at least when he bothered to call him anything at all, because Sirius knew it bothered him that he didn’t). Upon seeing Harry, tucked into a harness and into Remus’ trench, nose a little runny from the wet and eyes star bright, Farooq all but immediately lost the steam coming out of his ears and instead looked to Harry with softness. 

“Ah Harry,” Farooq said, though his accent had it coming out sounding more like ‘ _Hari_ ’ than ‘ _Harry_ ’, “You are looking very good lately. Been eating well? Eating your greens?” 

“As much as we can make him,” Remus answered for him, always kind and polite even when it was to people who made Sirius’ life incredibly difficult and very exhausting, “Say hello, Harry,” he encouraged the toddler strapped to his chest, who burbled a bit. 

“‘allo,” he greeted, and Farooq beamed. 

Farooq was quite taken with Harry, had been since the moment he saw him, upon that first angry knock at the attic flat’s door. When Sirius had first opened it, and gotten his first taste of one of the now terribly routine lectures, Harry had toddled down the hall to see what was taking Sirius so long to return from the door, and as he leaned against his legs, and looked out shyly into the landing, Farooq had taken notice of him and at once shifted his demeanor entirely. 

“Lovely lad,” he said, as he looked down at Harry, with his sticking up hair and his stained jumper and his jelly-sticky cheeks, “Handsome boy, you are, a little prince.”

He called him something else as well, something in Punjabi that Sirius didn’t quite catch, but it didn’t matter because at once Harry’s eyes lit up at the unfamiliar speech, and he had latched onto it like a sponge, hungry and desperate for something new and novel to him. Farooq had no qualms at all about speaking in Punjabi more with Harry, he in fact seemed to revel in it, and Sirius had shared his suspicions with Remus once that all the visits to the flat to criticize and complain were in fact smokescreens put up by the old man to give him the opportunity to instead drop by and have a chat with Harry, under the guise of lecturing his minders.

(“Is that so terrible?” Remus had asked him, tiredly, a bit exasperatedly, because he was well worn out on hearing Sirius bitch and moan about the old man who lived downstairs.

“No,” Sirius said, after a moment where he decided to think about it, “But he could just be upfront about it. It’s so silly, playing hard to get.”

Remus, to his credit, did not say anything about kettles or pots and their identical blackness to Sirius right then.)

While Remus and Harry talked to Farooq and freed Sirius from the confines of proper apartment living etiquette, he took it upon himself to snag the bags of groceries from Remus’ fingers, their knuckles brushing against one another briefly before he darted into the flat, away from Farooq and his three metre turban and his disapproval of Pink Floyd. He put boxes of pasta and tins of beans into the pantry and milk and eggs into the fridge, and obviously didn’t think about how he hadn’t left the flat in two weeks-- not since a tawny owl had brought him a letter from Dumbledore accompanied by a scrap of parchment that held a threat.

_Sirius Black’s treachery will be the death of him, as it was for his brother_

It turns out that when one goes about making himself repugnant to a great number of people-- namely his own family, the pure-blood obsessed lot-- it made narrowing down a list of enemies quite difficult, and so without much direction in which to begin looking in order to have a hope of uncovering who had it out for his head, it was suggested that Sirius simply stay at home, standing out too much otherwise. 

(“Oh, but the Boy Who Lived gets to go out for walks to the shop,” he groused to Remus irritably after he came home, both he and Harry smelling like vinegar and chips.

“The Boy Who Lived doesn’t go about with Canis Major tattooed on his neck,” Remus replied smartly, with narrowed eyes and a look that Sirius knew hid a quiet quip of _you tacky fuck_.)

While not thinking about his open-ended confinement to the flat, he was also not thinking about the second part of the parchment warning, the part about Regulus, the part that made him think about his brother, who had spent his whole life doing terrible things, only to die right after doing the right one. 

He most certainly wasn’t thinking about Regulus, and himself, or how he also made plenty of bad choices and did terrible things, and yet he ended up in an attic in London, putting packages of circus biscuits into a tin that Harry can’t sneak his way into when he’s supposed to be in bed. He wasn’t thinking about how Regulus was dead and entombed in the Black family crypt below 12 Grimmauld Place while Remus and Sirius took a reprieve from being properly attentive parents in order to try and get Sirius’ knees to touch his shoulders in bed. 

He was not thinking about Regulus or death or lingering regrets when Remus and Harry finally got back into the flat, having parted ways with Farooq after a bit more pleasant neighborly chatter and some apologies and promises to be better about the noise and the cigarettes in the lobby. 

“Well done Harry,” Sirius said as he went to pluck the boy out of the papoose, allowing Remus to shrug off his coat and his scarves, “Excellent diversion. James would be proud, you’re a chip off the old block, running interference. You’ll be keeping McGonagall busy in no time.” 

“I don’t know why you insist on antagonising Mister Bashair,” Remus said, voice slightly muffled by the jumper he was pulling over his head, nearly taking the shirt underneath with it, “He’s a perfectly nice man. Are you that bored, Sirius?”

“I’m insulted that you think that I go out of my way to bother old Farooq,” he sniffed, “He’s the one always coming up here to complain about one thing or another. Even I can’t possibly have the time to annoy anyone _that_ much.”

Remus hummed, and there was an inflection in the sound that seemed to indicate some sort of doubt in that claim. Sirius decided to ignore it. “Anyway, your timing is perfect. I’ve just about finished supper, and I’ll have you know I only burnt the bread twice.”

The mention of food seemed to intrigue Remus, who dumped his coat and scarves and jumper on a chair and went to investigate the pots scattered across the stove. After tasting a few things with his finger in order to parse together what exactly the menu was for the night, he looked back towards Sirius, who was looking quite proud of himself and bouncing Harry on his hip. “Two whole curries, and even some dal. I’ve outdone myself.”

“Christ,” said Remus, “You _are_ bored.”

* * *

There was a routine slowly settling into place within the Black-Lupin-Potter flat. Once supper was done, Sirius and Remus would flip a coin (always best two-of-three, because Sirius didn’t like to lose and Remus didn’t trust him not to cheat) to see who would clean the kitchen and who would clean Harry. They didn’t try to make much of a show of it, because they didn’t know how much Harry understood and they didn’t want to give him a complex or anything of the sort, but the kitchen was by far the preferred chore, because at least the kitchen didn’t fight back against being cleaned, and hadn’t learned to weaponize urine as a form of revenge. 

Once Harry was properly scrubbed, wrestled into some footies, and tucked into bed, then came the part of the routine where he was read a bedtime story, because Remus had picked up from his mum that it was good to read to children when they were young, it developed their minds and settled them down, and neither he nor Sirius could really disprove that theory, so their evenings that once involved a lot of drinking and smoking and maybe some shagging now contained nursery songs and picture books that were incredibly expensive considering they only contained about three sentences worth of writing. 

Harry’s favorite book was about a family of hedgehogs that lived in a garden where one of the baby hedgehogs got lost one day and had to be found and brought back home. Sirius didn’t know why Harry liked it-- one would think that getting lost and fearing abandonment would be rather traumatizing subjects for a toddler to hear-- but he kept quiet while it was read, and it was an excellent tool for bribes when he was being fussy or combative, and so the story about the lost little hedgehog was a necessary step of their bedtime routine.

The night of two curries and burnt bread, he had been the one who washed Harry and got him ready for bed (“You cooked, it’s only fair that I clean up,” Remus insisted, the underhanded bastard), and when he was settled onto the horrendously small toddler bed that Harry had gotten for his second birthday with Harry tucked under his arm and the book propped up on his stomach, he began to read the story for the umpteenth time. 

“...and from ‘round the blueberry bush came the sound of rustling, which frightened Thistle, until he saw just who appeared from the leaves. _‘There you are!’_ said Thistle’s brother Fennel, as he stepped out of the bush, _‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I’m so glad you’re safe!’_ And Thistle couldn’t be happier, seeing Fennel, because he knew Fennel would look after him…” read Sirius, though slowly, his voice grew stilted and halting, until it stopped completely as he looked down at the page without really seeing the words at all.

“Pads?” Harry’s tiny hand lightly pat his face, slightly wet from how he had been sucking his thumb not a moment before, “Pads, book?” 

Sirius’ answer was to slam the book in question shut, making a sharp snapping sound as he did. He sat up on the bed, Harry rolling a bit from being so unceremoniously dislodged. “Pads?” he calls again, in his little sweet voice, but when Sirius doesn’t speak, and instead just gets up from the bed and stands, his limited child-sized patience runs out, and with its absence comes the fussing. “Pads, book! Want book! Want Whistle!” The ‘th’ sound is too difficult for him still, things come out warbled and warped, and that’s how _Thistle_ becomes _Whistle_ , but Sirius can’t be bothered to care, can’t be bothered to correct him, like the pediatrician says they should. He just gets to his feet and goes to put the book somewhere else, anywhere that isn’t in his hand, isn’t in his immediate line of sight. 

On the bed, Harry’s fussing begins to pick up in severity. Sirius’ silence is strange, and upsetting to Harry, because he’s been robbed of his routine, his favorite story to settle him down for bed, and there’s no good explanation as to why. Not that Sirius believed that there was an explanation that existed that could properly convey children’s books about brothers and their pointlessness, their inaccuracy, their accusations hidden just between the lines.

Harry’s objections had now taken the form of a proper tantrum, one with wailing and sobbing and the kicking of feet. Sirius picked him up, holding him against his shoulder, trying to soothe, but Harry just wiggled against him as big fat tears rolled down his cheek.

“Enough of that Harry, you’re just tired, you need to go to sleep…”

“Whistle!” Harry sobbed, clenching his hands into fists in Sirius’ shirt, “Want Whistle!” 

“What’s happened?” Remus appeared in the door, the sleeves of his jumper pushed up to the elbows, and hands dripping wet. He had been in the middle of washing up, from the looks of it, yet came to investigate the noise coming from down the hall.

“What does it look like’s happened?” Sirius threw back, tilting his head to one side in order to escape some of the hysterical cries Harry was letting out just beside his ear, “There’s been a great weeping and gnashing of teeth because it’s past his bedtime and he’s still awake.”

“The book didn’t work?” Remus asked, looking surprised. He knew that was their ace in the hole, the Golden Snitch of bedtime and bouts of unreasonableness. 

Sirius grit his teeth. “Forget the bloody book! He doesn’t need that one, there’s plenty of others!”

Remus looked at him as if Sirius was being entirely unreasonable. He refused to consider the possibility that he was. Who wanted to read the same book, night after night, regardless of the subject matter of it, regardless of the mention of brothers and being lost and trusting that he’d be found.

“Want book!” Harry’s voice was a little less shrill at that point, having clearly begun to wear himself out, “Want book Pads! Want Whistle!”

“Thistle, Harry,” Remus said, because of course he remembered to do what the pediatrician said, and correct Harry when it’s needed, to encourage him to press his tongue against his teeth to master the ‘th’ sound. Sirius hated him in that moment, hated that Remus had good sense and the mastery over parental roles and obligations. “We can read the book, love, we’ll read you Thistle.”

“I hate that fucking book,” Sirius protested darkly. Remus looked at him for only a moment, before ignoring him.

“Alright Harry,” Remus stepped into the room, reaching out towards the boy, offering to take him, “Let’s read the book, and put you to bed. It really is getting late.”

“It’s not even seven,” Sirius said, because he hated the book and he hated bedtimes and he hated that seven o’clock was ‘late’ for them when they were only twenty-two and should have been doing pub crawls and shagging in bathrooms and closets until dawn the next morning. 

“C’mon pet, let’s settle in,” Remus continued ignoring him, touching Harry’s little shoulder. However, he was rebuffed, Harry continuing to cling to Sirius, even as he sobbed, repeating over and over again his demands for his favorite bedtime story, and his desire for Sirius to be the one who administered it.

There was nothing to be done, Remus had insisted, which Sirius immensely disagreed with. He was contrary by nature, to be sure, but this was a particularly egregious instance of inescapable reality, and Sirius was far from fond of it. Like the ideas of seven o’clock bedtimes and tiny cots and children’s books, the idea of there being nothing he could do in order to escape any situation he didn’t wish to be in was horrible. Unreasonable. Terrifying. 

But Harry needed to sleep, and Sirius and Remus needed him to sleep, because aside from being very much like Lily Evans-Potter and utterly impossible in the morning if not allowed to have a full ten, it was Remus and Sirius themselves who needed the break. They needed that time to sit in silence, to feel like adults again, but not the sort of adults that were responsible and sensible and who were the guardians of a child. They needed to be adults who drank cheap beer and played awful board games because Remus grew up believing Catan to be an enjoyable way to pass the hours, and he had nearly gotten laughed right out of the dormitory when that came out in second year, predominantly by Sirius who preferred to play Two Truths and A Lie. They needed to not be sensibile, to not be mature, and in order to do that they had to make a go of being sensible and mature, at least until Harry was in bed.

So they lay there, all three of them, in Harry’s narrow bed which was certainly not intended for grown men and their long limbs, but with a few transfiguration spells and a bit of squeezing, the fit was managed. Harry lay between them, tucked back into the space beneath Sirius’ arm, while Remus rested on his other side, propped up a bit against the wall, so that he could read the book easily. 

“...and Thistle said to Fennel, _‘I know you will always look after me, because what else are brothers for?’_ Fennel, who was a very good big brother, nodded his head…”

They had tried to leave, once the story was done, once they believed Harry had settled. His eyes had fluttered shut, and he was quiet, comfortable, looking every bit the picture of a boy well off on his way to proper sleep. But the moment that Sirius began to pull away, Harry had startled, and he protested loudly, clinging tightly to him once again. So Sirius and Remus laid there, the lights low save for a glowing bedroom moon, one that was pulled by a little chariot in lazy circles around the room, perfect for chasing away nightmares and fighting off anything that could go bump in the night. 

It’s Remus who spoke first, disturbing the eerie silence of the bedroom. “Why wouldn’t you read the story tonight?”

“I hate it,” Sirius said, not looking at Remus. Instead, his eyes followed the magical little orb of light making arounds above their heads. Harry was afraid of the dark, and the night light was necessary if they hoped to have him sleep in his own room, rather than squeezed in between the two of them. For a while, both he and Remus had not minded. It hadn’t been so bad, having Harry sleep with them because that was a way for them both to keep track of him. Nothing would steal him away, no monsters or ghosts could crawl into their room without them noticing, trying to get at the Boy Who Lived. Harry slept better, then they were able to sleep at all. But now he needed to have a room of his own, where he could create his own space and learn about boundaries and privacy and a load of other nonsensical things that Remus had read about in a book that he insisted was very highly recommended for childcare. Sirius didn’t care; he just knew that Harry needed a bed with a safety bar and a night light and maybe some new stuffies because that was the only way he would be able to sleep.

Unbidden then came the thoughts of his mother, and how he never had a bedroom moon or soft toys or bedtime stories. If anything, his mother encouraged his nightmares, the few times he ever came to her with them, because it was far better that he learned how much worse the world could be, rather than simply believe that all there was to worry about was nifflers under his bed and vorpal bats in the closet. 

“Why, Padfoot?” Remus asked, his voice apologetic. As if he was already aware of what the answer was, as if he regretted the mere thought of asking him to explain. There were doors left locked in Grimmauld Place because of the horrors that lay within. Sirius, a Black to his core, was much the same.

“You know why.”

“Yes,” came Remus’ sickeningly gentle and reluctant agreement, “but I think it’d still help if you explained.”

“Oh,” Sirius laughed a little just under his breath. Even to his own ears the sound was too hysterical to be of actual amusement. “Because we’re both so well versed. Talking about things, the thing we do best. Fantastic idea, that.”

“Don’t be a prick,” Remus said reflexively, and Sirius didn’t need to look at him to know he was scowling. It just made him chuckle again.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding very sorry at all, “How terribly out of character of me.”

Remus sighed and said nothing more.

* * *

The first day of December began with a late breakfast of runny eggs and slightly charred toast, Harry still in his pajamas and Remus drinking tea, doing the Prophet’s crossword while Sirius provided unhelpful suggestions.

“Five letter word for wampus cat.”

“Pussy.”

“It doesn’t fit,” Remus said without looking up from the paper, “I knew you’d say that.” A pause. “Idiot.”

Sirius laughed as he dragged the last bit of his bread through the yolk on his plate.

Breakfast and crossword was interrupted then by the arrival of a great tawny owl tapping upon the attic window, the one that Sirius often used to sneak out onto the roof when he needed a smoke. Sirius and Remus glanced to one another as the owl tapped again, causing Harry to shout, “Owl!” quite loudly, crumbs and bits of half chewed cereal bits to spray out of his mouth.

“Yes, yes, owl post, you’re right Harry,” Remus leaned over with a napkin to wipe his mouth while Sirius got to his feet, and went to open the window. Without waiting for Sirius to step aside, the bird swept in, feathers brushing across his cheek and through his hair. In its talons was a large envelope, bright yellow and tied with a scarlet cord: Ministry correspondence. The owl dropped the letter on the table, Remus quickly rescuing it from the runny yolks on Sirius’ plate as well as some spilt milk from Harry, and then took perch on Sirius’ abandoned chair.

“Wassit about?” Sirius asked as he went to stand beside Remus, and read over his shoulder. It was then that he saw that right above the Ministry’s ridiculous wax seal, the letter bore a name, written in shimmering ink. 

_Mister Sirius O. Black_

“It’s for you,” Remus said, dumbly, and for that he received a roll of Sirius’ eyes as he plucked the letter from his hand.

“As if I need more strongly worded complaints about me sent through the post. At this point I’m tempted to redo the nursery walls. How’d you like that Harry? This would make good wallpaper, don’t you think?” he asked, waving the envelope in his hand. Harry was holding up a bite of toast towards the owl-- who was eyeing the offered snack with interest-- looked towards Sirius when he heard his name.

“Owl, Pads,” he shook his raised fist.

“Good priorities,” said Sirius, before he turned his attention back to the letter from the Ministry. 

It was Remus’ turn to be curious and try to read over Sirius’ shoulder, standing up in order to do so. The letter was long, superfluously worded, as expected of any governing body, but there were several words that stood out to Sirius, as he read through it.

_Trial. Witness. Testimony. Member of the House of Black._

The tawny owl had just taken the bit of Harry’s toast, much to Harry’s delight, when Remus spoke up, summarizing the letter out loud.

“You’ve been summoned to court. As a character witness, for Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“née Black,” Sirius amended, his eyes still trained onto the paper, “Mustn't forget that part.”

“Are you speaking for the prosecution or the defense?” Remus asked, and tried to read the paper again to see if it had the answer.

“Does it matter? Nothing I have to say could possibly help her.”

“That’s what confuses me. You’re cousins, yes, but… Why call you? To what end?”

Sirius did not have an answer, so instead he simply gave his attention back to the paper, picking up the quill Remus had left on the table from doing the crossword. With a quick scrawl, he signed his name where it was required, acknowledging the summons. The paper flashed the moment the ink sunk in, sealing his signature, which seemed to be what the tawny owl had been waiting for. Nabbing another piece of toast from Harry’s plate, the large owl spread its wings and lifted itself into the air. Seizing the paper from Sirius, which returned itself into the envelope, it dropped a second piece of paper onto the table, Remus not quite quick enough to catch it that time, resulting in the corner dipping into Sirius’ coffee. With that, the bird took flight, leaving through the same window it came in, Harry letting out a sound of disappointment once it was gone.

The second paper was at first a word of thanks from the Ministry (for what, he could not fathom, given the preceding letter), before the words shifted and morphed to become a set of instructions and dates, informing him of when he was needed in court. 

“Well Moony,” he said, as he picked up the letter by the unsaturated corner, coffee dripping from the other end, “it seems as if I’ll need to borrow your suit.”

With a tap of his wand, the letter was dried and folded and tucked away into a kitchen drawer to be pulled out at a later date, a time closer to when he needed it (not that he wanted to need it, not that he even wanted it in the house at all but he had already signed and the Ministry would find a way to pull him into court somehow). After that, he was put off of breakfast and crosswords and decided to instead steal out through the kitchen window, climbing up the side of the flat to the roof. 

Remus did not try to stop him.

He sat on the roof, straddling the arched point, cigarette in hand. It was December, and cold, and quite wet, but Sirius hardly felt any of those things. He just sat and smoked as he looked out across the skyline of rooftops, occasional plumes of smoke coiling out of chimneys here and there breaking up the view. 

He thought about letters, and how they never seemed to have any good news attached to them.

He thought about three years ago, when there came an incessant tapping on the bedroom window of the flat he shared with Remus back in Soho. Sirius had simply rolled over, away from the sound, burying his head further beneath the blankets in hopes of tuning it out. For a few blessed moments, he had succeeded, but then it picked up again, louder, more demanding, and he eventually surrendered and kicked Remus in the shin to wake him up, so that he could address it. 

A groan came from the other side of the bed, an irritated huff, but then the shuffling of blankets and limbs, and the window creaked open just as he felt himself nod off again. At least, until there was a cold hand on his bare shoulder, shaking him awake. “Sirius,” Remus’ voice was a husky, worn sound, but beneath the layer of sleep, there was some insistence, “Sirius, it’s for you.” 

“I’m not falling for that one again,” he had mumbled, and sunk further into the mattress. He wasn’t going to play along so easily; if Remus wanted him to be the one who dealt with business matters first thing in the morning after he unceremoniously shoved them off onto him, he’d have to be more clever than that. “I haven’t got any reason to be up at this ungodly hour. It’s terrible. It’s unholy. It’s illegal.”

“It’s ten,” Remus argued, and then gripped his shoulder tighter, “It’s from Dumbledore.”

That did not inspire any compliance from Sirius, who instead moaned, “Then it could very well wait until after breakfast, or brunch, as the case may be. Certainly he’s got another goose chase to send us on… Why don’t you read it, and tell me if it’s worth me opening my eyes this early?” he suggested, already teetering on the edge of being half asleep.

“It’s not addressed to ‘us’,” Remus clarified, and that had Sirius drawing himself back into consciousness, “It’s only got your name on it. And a seal.”

Curiosity, his most damning vice, had clutched at Sirius’ chest, and finally, he pulled the covers down from his face, just enough to turn over, and look up at Remus, who was sitting upright in bed, a letter held in his hand. It was in a black envelope, and the seal that held it closed was blood red, the detailing of a phoenix in the wax outlined with gold. Remus held it, as if the letter itself was made of gold, and as delicate as a moth wing; there was a nervous energy coming from him, and it infected Sirius, who carefully plucked it from his hands, and with a thumb, broke the seal, and flipped open the lip. The note inside was written in that same spindley hand that all their other letters from Dumbledore were penned in, but the wording was more formal, the tone less familiar. The old wizard had gotten into the habit of writing to them as if they were old friends, likely under the impression that it’d make him more agreeable to them, but all of that was absent from this letter, and distantly, Sirius wondered if perhaps he’d dictated it to someone else. However, he didn’t have long to think on that, once he properly began to read, and the words slowly sunk in. 

_Mister Black,_

_I send you my deepest condolences for your loss…_

Suddenly, the smooth, finely pressed parchment felt like sandpaper between his fingers. The dark black ink in delicate thin lines began to blur and swirl together, and the world around him lost its focus. The only things he could see clearly were the words ‘Regulus’ and ‘death’ and ‘tragic end,’ words which felt unnatural, and fake and like they were supposed to belong to another language, not any of the ones that he spoke. He shouldn’t understand them, and in a way, he didn’t, but he still knew them, they still sunk, deeper and deeper into his lungs, and there was a taste like ash and dirt in his mouth. It was like he’d gone to a grave and took a handful of the soil and swallowed it. His body lost its sense of balance as the world tilted on its axis, just slightly, not enough for anyone else to notice but him. 

“Pads?” Remus’ voice cut through his thoughts, tearing them to ribbons. He forced himself to lift his head, and meet his eyes. Warm and hazel and beneath heavy furrowed brows, just like always, but looking at them still felt unfamiliar to him, it still felt foreign, as if he hadn’t done it hundreds upon thousands of times before. He felt like he was looking at a stranger. He felt like he was himself a stranger, an outside observer within his own body.

“Regulus is dead.” His mouth had formed the words, but it wasn’t his voice that came out. It creaked and moaned, more a whisper than anything else. At that moment, it sounded like Dumbledore’s voice, like the man’s words had lifted from the paper and lodged in his throat, coming out like he’d said it outloud in Sirius’ place. “Fuck. Shit,” there was his voice again, his mouth and tongue moving to form words he actually understood and ones that he could believe he said, but they were still choked either way, “Fuck me, Regulus is dead.” 

He could recognize that Remus was talking. He heard the low thrum of his voice, but nothing other than the tone was distinct. It was garbled, muffled, like trying to listen to something under water. Remus was speaking to him but Sirius didn’t understand a word of it; what he did understand was the way that he suddenly had two arms wrapped around him, and Remus’ hands in his hair, one smoothing through the strands, while the other guided his head into the crook of his shoulder. He inhaled the scent of his soap and the detergent from his shirt, and that was strangely what grounded him. It felt like he couldn’t trust what he was hearing, or what he was seeing, but his sense of smell, and the sensation of touch, those were all concrete and tangible, and so he clung to them. He returned the embrace he was pulled into, and clutched desperately to the fabric of his shirt, while he buried his head into that comfortable space found between Remus’ neck and his shoulder. He focused on his breathing, on making sure he was still taking in breaths, because for a long moment, it felt as if he wasn’t taking in any air at all. His first inhale shuddered, and the second squeaked, but then the third broke completely, as Sirius let out a rough, dry sob, the sound all but ripping itself out of his chest. He didn’t cry-- he couldn’t, Blacks didn’t have any tears to spare, he’d long been told-- but he screamed and heaved into Remus’ neck, while it felt like everything cracked and crumbled beneath him. 

He hadn’t spoken to Regulus in nearly three years; why did it hurt so badly? He hadn’t even truly known him, by the end.

But, he had known him at all, he had once been his brother, and part of him still was, and he realized in that moment he never expected to live in this world longer than him, had never believed he’d be the one left behind. He couldn’t be the survivor; that was never his role. 

And yet there he was, twenty and still so young but older than Regulus would ever be. He was a child but not nearly as much of a child as his brother, and yet that hadn’t saved him. He was someone who had done nothing but irresponsible things, had gotten his name blasted off the family tree for brashness and reckless behavior. 

But somehow it was Regulus who died.

He had gone through two cigarettes, sitting up on that roof, thinking about Regulus before the cold finally sunk into him, and he had no choice but to retreat inside. Breakfast was cleaned up, Harry distracted with a roll of butcher’s paper and a box of crayons on the floor. Remus looked up when Sirius came in through the window, having gone back to the Daily Prophet.

“Alright Pads?” he asked, and earned the widest smile Sirius could muster. It was canine, it was wild, it was all teeth.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Remus only shook his head, and returned to the paper.

* * *

Bellatrix’s trial was set for the week before Christmas.

(“Great way to ruin the holiday,” Sirius had remarked, upon reading the date. 

“You only celebrated Christmas to upset your mother,” Remus pointed out. That was beside the point.)

Even if Sirius had not been called to testify, there was no escaping the news of the trial. It was slapped across every newspaper, front page, center column. 

_BELLATRIX LESTRANGE: DEATH EATER_

Articles about the war, about the Longbottoms, they never seemed to end. Each one tried to find new information, tried to gain some insight that another paper did not have. Talk shows on the wireless boasted exclusive interviews, magazines were littered with photos, mostly her mugshot, but others snaps from her school days, sitting with other accused Death Eaters, all of them wearing Slytherin’s colors, even in the faded photos. 

Sirius did not look at those, because Regulus was there. 

Of course, he got plenty of owls from reporters, all pleading for comment. When word got out that he was on the docket for testimony, the number only increased, and included not only the media, but schoolmates, professors, and quite a few extended relatives. 

(His mother sent a Howler. He didn’t know why she bothered, given he was already quite disinherited.) 

Leaving the flat became even more impossible than before. Already he had been told to stay out of sight because of those death threats against his person (which they had come to understand were likely tied to the interest in having Sirius testify at Bellatrix’s trial, so at least one mystery was solved) and now he couldn’t step foot outside his door without someone trying to get him to say anything that they could publish in the morning paper. Sirius, with his long history of saying many things he shouldn’t, was therefore instructed to simply stay put, to mitigate any possible complications. 

This, naturally, was easier said than done.

Despite the fact that he and Remus had never connected their flat to the Floo, and had several friends in high places do their best to disguise their location, there was frequent knocking upon their door, and never from anyone they wanted to have drop in for a visit. 

Once, Harry had delighted in visitors and would eagerly rush to answer knocks and ringing doorbells. Yet now even he had grown sick of the constant interruption, and when there came the sound of someone at the door, he would let out a loud exclamation of frustration, and go move into another room. Sirius believed this to be proof of some childhood genius, and often followed suit, leaving Remus to be the one responsible for shooing errant reporters away from their front door. 

"Do you know Sirius Black?"

"It depends," he heard Remus say from his place hiding around the corner of the hall, "entirely on why you're asking. Because if you are owed money, or a shag, or have something to sell, then tragically no, I don't know him. I've heard of him though. They say he's awful handsome, though pity he's such an arsehole."

“Sir,” said the journalist-- young, from Scotland from the sound of their accent, likely an intern at most-- “I’d just like to see if Mister Black has to say about his cousin, given the charges put against her. I can’t even imagine what he thinks of the accusations regarding the Longbottoms--”

“Fortunate then that you’ll get to hear all that he’s got to say come Tuesday, when he takes the stand,” Remus cut them off, voice entirely pleasant, though words curt, “For now, I suggest you find some other story to cover. I’ve heard that there’s nargles running rampant in Yorkshire. Ta,” he said, and then shut the door.

Once he was sure the door was closed, and secured by at least four locking spells, Sirius came around the corner, leaning against the frame of the door that connected the sitting room and the kitchen. “My good looks are pitiful?” he quipped, smirking at Remus.

“That isn’t what I said,” Remus corrected, stepping away from the door and towards Sirius, “Though it is true. Tragic that you’re so good looking. It’s made you impossible to put up with,” he said, teasing right back.

“Yet you’re still here.”

“Masochism. Comes naturally when your mum’s Catholic.” 

Sirius laughed, shoving his shoulder into Remus’ as he walked by. 

Harry was in the sitting room, pushing a toy train around the floor. A Christmas present opened early, because Remus had foolishly believed that he could leave a present under the tree and have it be left alone until Christmas morning. Not that Harry could be blamed for not understanding the tradition very well; last year there hadn’t been a Christmas, because he was with just Sirius, and Sirius couldn’t think much about doing more than keeping Harry fed most days, let alone decorate a tree and bother with gifts. Now Remus was there, and Remus had memories of Christmas, of fairy lights and ornaments, and so they had gotten a tree and dressed it one night, with Harry helping them along. 

Remus sat on the couch, where he had been before the bell had run. The book he was forced to abandon was picked up once again, though he did not immediately return to reading it. Instead he merely stared at it for a long moment before he looked up towards Sirius and said. “What do you plan to say?”

They hadn’t spoken about the trial. Sirius assumed that they had an unsaid understanding, a moratorium on discussing anything about upcoming court dates and statements that were to be given at said unspoken of court date. So Sirius acted as if he didn’t know what Remus was talking about.

“To the reporter? I think you did a fine enough job chasing him away, Moony. Unless you think I should tell him some more about my rakish looks.” 

“Sirius.”

He finally sighed, throwing his hands up, tired and well beyond exasperated. “What do you think I should say Moony? I’ve got to go stand in front of the Ministry and talk about my cousin, who I never much liked even before she started torturing people for Voldemort, and I’ve got no clue as to why they’re asking for me to speak at all in the first place! Not as if I’ve spoken to her at all in the last several years. I haven’t said a word to her since before I left home to live with James. What possible things could I say?”

“I don’t know,” Remus said honestly, looking away from Sirius again, and back to his book, for lack of much else to look at, “I can’t even imagine what sort of questions they’ll ask of you. Are you worried that they’ll make you take veritaserum?”

Sirius cocked a brow at that. “Why would they bother to go that far? And why should that worry me?”

Remus continued to avoid his gaze. “They might want to verify your statement. And… I hear that veritaserum makes it easy to say more than you want to. More than you normally would. What if they ask about you?”

Sirius snorted at that. “Anything they want to ask about me I’m more than happy to supply without a truth potion. It’s not as if I’ve got any shame, or any reputation left to bother protecting. ‘Oh that Sirius Black, I hear he was too stupid for N.E.W.T.S. to get a real job. Hear he’s raising Harry Potter. Hear he’s a queer, shacking up with some sentient patchy jumper he found in a trunk.’ All plenty of accusations against me that I’m looking forward to having legally confirmed.”

Remus’ hands left the book in his lap so that they could reach up, and irritably rub his face. “God, Sirius, that isn’t what I meant. Not every secret you have is only about you.”

“What are you talking about--” Sirius began to say, before he caught sight of the scars on Remus’ hands, the scars he saw on his neck, peeking out from beneath his hands.

 _Ah_. How could he forget?

He crossed the room, walking until he stood in front of Remus, who still had his head held in his hands. Kneeling down between his legs, Sirius reached out to gently pry them from his face. “There’s nothing they could ask me that would make me tell anyone about you, Moony,” he promised him, voice gentle yet sincere, “Why would they want to know anything about me anyway? I’m going to talk about Bellatrix; there’s no reason that your name should even come up.”

“You’re living with me, Sirius,” Remus reminded him, his eyes half-lidded, downcast and heavy, “I’m certain they’ll question your credibility. Harry and I are likely to come up.”

Sirius hummed. “Fair enough. But that doesn’t mean I’d tell them anything about you, about the things you’ve entrusted to me. Not even veritaserum could get that out of me. I wouldn’t let it.”

“It’s not about ‘letting it’ Sirius, damn it, I told you that from what I’ve heard when they’ve given it, you just can’t help it. You can’t control what you say, and so you just end up saying everything.”

“And I told you,” Sirius said stubbornly, ignoring the groan of frustration that came out from Remus, “That isn’t going to happen. You don’t think I can’t find a way to talk my way out of anything that leads to the topic of your being a werewolf? Half my family are fucking Death Eaters Moony, why would they give a shit about the bloody book translator I’ve got living in my flat? The most offensive thing about you is those terrible cardigans you insist on wearing, I swear you dress like you ripped off someone’s nan...”

“This isn’t a time for jokes, Sirius,” Remus chided him, his tone growing strained, “Why do you refuse to even consider the possibility that this is something we need to worry about--”

“Because it’s pointless!” he finally snapped at him, “It simply isn’t going to happen! Why do you insist on being so stubborn about the most pointless things?!” he asked, and that had Remus laughing, sharp and loud and clearly annoyed rather than amused. “If you’re that worried about it, then fine! I’ll just find a way to fix it--”

“You can’t fix it!” Remus finally exploded, the shout ripping up and out of his throat. It was rare that Remus allowed himself to yell, because yelling was too close to howling, was too close to barking and something animal (at least that was what Sirius could only assume), but he’d gotten to that point now, a limit that Sirius at times tended to forget existed. “This isn’t something fixable! If it was, don’t you think I would have found a way by now?!” He had a hand in his hair, he was pulling and tugging and looking like he was on the verge of falling apart. “God, Sirius, you can’t even imagine what it’s like. What it was like, having your parents trying to change you, to know that you could never be what they wanted, that you were something wrong and terrible in their eyes.”

Sirius scowled, both in anger, and from indignation. “Really, Moons? You’re saying that to me? You know what my mother was like, you know all about the Black family--”

He didn’t have the chance to finish, because Remus was shouting, “fuck you!” at him again. “How dare you, Sirius?” he thundered, eyes hard, the edges of his mouth turned white from being pressed so thin, “It’s not the same. It’s not the same at all.”

“Stop!” There was another voice shouting, but it was Harry’s, and that got both Sirius and Remus to stop. They turned, looking towards him, and saw that Harry had gotten to his feet, eyes wet and cheeks red, toy train left forgotten on the floor, “No fighting! No yelling!”

“I’m sorry Harry, you’re right; we shouldn’t be shouting,” Sirius apologized, getting to his feet and going over to the boy, who lifted his arms, asking to be picked up. Sirius complied with his request, pulling Harry up and putting him on his hip, before turning back to face Remus again. “Alright, fair enough. It isn’t the same,” he conceded, returning to their previous argument, just without raising his voice as he had done before, Harry’s weight on his hip serving as a reminder, “But I know better than I think you are willing to admit, you just want to be miserable and stubborn--”

“Enough,” Remus cut him off, getting to his feet, “Not in front of Harry.”

“We aren’t shouting,” Sirius began to say, but after catching Remus’ unhappy look, he rolled his eyes and relented. “Fine, alright. Not in front of Harry.” Shifting the weight of the toddler he was holding, hefting him up a bit higher, he gave his attention then to Harry instead. “Let’s go make you a snack, Harry, and then get you ready for a nap. How’s that sound?”

“Mmhm,” Harry grumbled, not seemingly entirely convinced about either of those things, but when Sirius smiled, and began to carry him into the kitchen, he didn’t protest, and by the time he was placed on the counter and given some circus biscuits, his mood had significantly improved. “Pads,” he said around a mouthful of biscuit, “Why are you mad?” 

“I’m not mad,” he said reflexively, immediately, but Harry looked at him with his nose scrunched up and brows pulled together, and he looked so much like James then that Sirius had to look away. “I’m not mad at you,” he corrected since that was very much true.

“Mad at Moony?” Harry asked.

“A bit. But it’s not only Moony I’m mad at.”

“Who else?” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed again, and he tilted his head to the side, clearly confused. 

He had to think about his answer for a long moment, before, “I...I don’t know,” Sirius realized. Maybe it was the Ministry. Maybe it was his family. _Maybe it’s myself_ , his brain tacked on, unhelpful and indiscernible as usual.

“Don’t be mad,” Harry said, and offered one of his crackers to Sirius, who playfully took it from him with his teeth, earning a soft giggle, “Hafta say sorry to Moony. Shouldn’t be mad.”

“What?” Sirius gawked at him a bit, brushing crumbs from the corner of Harry’s mouth only to have more appear as the child ate another biscuit, “What if Moony’s done something to make me mad? Am I just expected to let it go, and play nicely?”

Such a concept seemed beyond a toddler’s understanding, because Harry only continued to dig through the box of biscuits, looking for ones shaped like dragons-- his favorite. 

“You look like James, but you’re just like Lily,” he groused, picking up Harry again and putting him back on his hip so that he could carry him to the bedroom, “Always picking Moony’s side. It’s a conspiracy. Multi-generational plot against me.”

To his credit, Harry did reach up and consolingly pat his cheek.

When Harry was properly down for his nap, Sirius returned to the kitchen to see Remus standing at the stove, putting the kettle on the hob. 

“Interested in talking now?”

“Depends on how much of a prick you plan on being.”

His mouth opened to argue purely on instinct, but then after a moment, he reconsidered, and closed it, giving himself a second to sort out what he actually wanted to say. “I wasn’t saying that what I was put through growing up was the same as yours. I just think that I understand more than you realize. More than you’d like to admit, with this whole complex you’ve got, where no one could possibly understand what it’s like to feel terrible about themselves, and be pushed out because of it.”

“That’s a shit apology,” Remus snapped at him, not even looking up from watching the kettle.

With a sigh of frustration, and after pushing both his hands irritably through his hair, Sirius tried again. “Alright then Remus, then why don’t you actually _talk_ to me about things? Why don’t you use your bloody words and tell me about how things were for you? You’ve barely ever said.” What he knew he pieced together through context, through watching Remus’ behavior, through his own understanding of how people felt about werewolves, from rumors and gossip that he’d picked up over the years. Never really from Remus himself. 

There was silence between them, once that seemed to stretch on and on, until finally, the kettle whistled, and Remus took it off the cooktop. He went through the familiar ritual of pulling a mug from the cupboard, and then the tin from the counter, making himself a cup of tea while not saying a word to Sirius. He didn’t speak as he put a dash of milk in, stirring it-- three times, as always, never more than that. Yet, just when Sirius suspected that he might be finished, and prepared to continue the conversation, Remus put the mug down, and stared at the wall, both his hands flat on the counter.

“Fuck,” he said softly, “I need a smoke.” 

The tea was left to grow cold on the counter, abandoned and forgotten. Sirius didn’t have time to wax poetic on that, because by then Remus had gone into the front hall and pulled out from the cupboard the box they kept hidden on the top shelf, worn and beaten and familiar. From there he retreated into the sitting room, and Sirius, sensing that he was expected to follow, trailed behind. 

The two of them settled onto the couch, and Remus busied himself with taking papers and pot out of the box, giving his focus to the process of rolling a spliff. Though, the whole time, his fingers trembled, until Sirius took pity on him and retrieved it, finishing the task himself. With a flick of his wand, the joint was lit, and he gave Remus the first puff, half from mercy, half from habit.

“Thanks,” Remus muttered, taking a drag and holding it in for a long moment, before passing it back to Sirius. They went on like that for several minutes, simply to calm down, and let the cannabis take effect. “I don’t like even thinking about it. Talking about it always felt like too much.” 

“I figured that.”

They didn't talk about things such as the years before Hogwarts, or the change, or the attempts made by desperate parents to cure their son of his damnable affliction. Remus refused to share, when asked, and Sirius was far more willing to share stories of his illustrious childhood of horrible stories that they all tended to forget that other people had terrible lives.

Well, James and Peter, they forgot because they hadn't had horrible lives to compare it to, hadn't had hang ups tied to their parents that gave them much reason to consider that not everyone was nearly so blessed. As for Sirius, he forgot because it was not directly about him. It was about Remus, who he loved, who he made nearly everything in his life revolve around. But it was about Remus before he knew Sirius, and so it was very hard to think about Remus without him, to know there was a part of his life and his history that he would never be allowed.

They likely should have talked about it long before now. But they hadn't, and so now it all came out, terrible and raw and far too much emotion for them to be nearly as stoned as they were. Or perhaps not stoned enough.

"Da did a lot of things, because of the lycanthropy," Remus said in his low voice, the voice that came about when he was feeling morose and cross, "Tried to find a cure. Lots of attempts. Lots of theories. Lots of failures, as you can imagine."

"Bet," Sirius muttered, and took another drag.

There were the traditional tries, Remus shared, the potions, the leeches, the herbs, the mixing of silver powder into his food, hoping it would simply burn the wolf out. But those all failed, so his parents tried newer things, like hexes, and mirror magic, all attempts to bounce back the curse, to turn it onto the one who inflicted the wound. But one can't make a werewolf more of a werewolf, and so those were pointless as well.

"That left blood magic," Remus said, holding the joint between two fingers, but not taking his hit, "Terrifying shit, for an eight year old."

Terrifying shit for a twenty-two year old, Sirius thought, but didn’t say.

“There’s this theory, about lycanthropy, that only certain sorts of people can get it. You know, even if you’re bit, doesn’t mean you’ll get it. Highly likely, of course, ratio is I think nine-to-one, but… Doesn’t always happen. Sometimes it doesn’t take hold.” They both knew that, they both had their experiences with that, and Sirius felt the scar on his calf twinge as he reminisced. 

“Yeah. It isn’t always guaranteed. So, what sort of people do they think are likely to get it?” he asked, having not quite heard that particular theory.

Remus laughed, and then took another long drag. “Well, there’s two types. First, of course, is Mudbloods,” he said, “People who are already wrong, people who were fucked up to begin with. Theory is that the wolf attaches to the Muggle half, because a proper wizard is immune. Allegedly, a Pureblood can’t catch it, though I figure that’s just money talking, that Pureblood werewolves simply have the power to hide it. But, what do I know,” he shrugged, and passed the spliff over to Sirius.

“And the other?” he asked, watching Remus carefully, “Who else do they think catches lycanthropy?”

As Remus looked to him, and their eyes met, Sirius saw his lips twitch, then pull up into a shoddy imitation of a smile. “Queers.”

Sirius was not surprised.

“So, for someone like me, there wasn’t a chance.” Another pause, another drag. “That’s what the blood magic was supposed to do; give me a chance.”

Sirius found a lump in his throat he couldn’t quite swallow. “How?”

The blood magic, Remus explained, was supposed to perform a transformation. Take his mixed blood, and purify it, filter out everything that was dirty and flawed, and leave only the good blood behind. “Bloodletting,” he said, as he held out his hand to Sirius, showing him a long thin line of a scar across his palm, “was only the first stage.”

His mother had cried all through it. Had wept because he was in pain, had wept because he was broken, had wept because his father was trying to burn away the part of Remus that came from her. His father had tried giving him more of his own blood-- pure blood-- in some sort of act of balance to replace what was being lost. But all of the blood in his father’s body couldn’t have fixed him, and so they resorted to other methods, other attempts to get rid of his condition.

“There was a potion they made me drink, every night. I don’t know what was in it, other than oleander and mercury. Made me ill all the time. I can still smell it, sometimes. Burned like hell going down, and coming up.” By then, Remus had leaned back against the sofa, his head tilted towards the ceiling and eyes closed. “I was taking it in our first year. I can’t even remember how many times I puked while I was on it. It felt like every day.” Sirius remembered that first year, remembered the sallow pallor of Remus’ skin, how thin he was. ‘Every day’ was likely not much of an exaggeration.

“When did it stop?” he asked, holding on to the smoldering end of what remained of their spliff. 

“Just before second year,” Remus said, eyes still closed, head still tipped back, “Da tried his ways, and none of them worked. So Mum took me to a Jesuit, to try her ways. They performed an exorcism. Actually, they performed three,” he corrected, after distractedly counting on his fingers for a moment, “But when they realized I wasn’t going to stop being a werewolf, and I couldn’t help being gay, they sort of gave up. Tried to love me best they could. But it had changed me, and it changed how they saw me. I knew things were different.” 

Sirius leaned over, and ground the butt of the spliff into the ashtray they had put out on the table. Then, he scooted over, putting his arm around Remus and pulling him close, tucking his head into the curve of his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” he murmured after a moment, “You win. That’s pretty fucked up.”

Remus snorted into his neck, before burying himself closer. “S’not a competition. But, I agree. Your teenage rebellion pales in comparison.” 

“Gimme a few years, I’m sure I can come up with something,” Sirius taunted, and Remus snickered again. Then, he quieted, and began slowly combing his fingers through the other man’s hair. “I’m sorry Moony. I didn’t know. I never knew.”

“Well, I never told you,” Remus shrugged, speaking almost entirely into Sirius’ collar, “I didn’t want you to pity me. Or be disgusted in me. Real big fuckin turn off, knowing everyone in the world’s got reason to hate you, to think the worst of you.” 

Sirius pulled him close, pressing his lips to his temple. “I’d never hate you, Remus. I’ve always thought you were the best of us. You know I trust you.”

“You didn’t, once.” It came muttered so softly, Sirius almost didn’t hear it. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to admit it, so he pretended he hadn't, and just pulled Remus closer, burying his face into his wavy hair.


End file.
